In Remembrance Of
by NamelessMoonshine
Summary: A story about someone travelling somewhere in the rain, and realizing the contrasts that reality can make (Was going to be a Veteran's Day special, but not really).


**Disclaimer**: Not mine, nope nope nope! -.- must you all continually remind me? o-o

I know that this fic is incredibly short, but it popped into my head a little while ago and wouldn't get out no matter what I did, and lengthening it only made it kind of flow less than it had before. It's annoying when my stories do that.

This is something I'm strangely proud of, because of how it came out. It _was_ going to be a Veteran's Day special, but it's awful late for that title, and it didn't match the holiday as I would've wanted it, though it came pretty close, I'll admit that much.

Nevertheless, it is a one-shot, and one of my stranger ones on that note.

Enjoy.

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**Oneshot** - In Remebrance Of

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It was raining today.

He didn't mind the rain really, it added to the day's melancholy feel. He even so far as to praise the wet missles that soaked his gloves and shoes, and the dark green jacket he'd pulled over himself as a last minute act to keep somewhat healthy on his journey. His fur was matted, plastered to his skin in such a way that it glimmered faintly when it was not being pounded down on, which was rare. He moved slowly, which was different from the usual. Anyone who knew him would know that this was not an ordinary day, that the way he moved today was wrong, was strange. His footsteps lingered behind him in the form of muddy tracks, but usually he went too fast to leave tracks. Especially when it rained.

Not that he minded the rain. Because he didn't.

He just never liked getting wet.

Tugging the jacket closer, he passed the stone wall that encircled his destination, past the stone ghosts that haunted this world of silence and death in the shape of the winged saviors that symbolized hope, forgiveness, and other such holy aspects of life. Past the twistings trees and intertwining branches that held a breif refuge from the rain, only so much that he was kept slightly less wet than if he'd been under the direct tumult of the downpour.

He paused when the end of his journey came into sight. A single slab of stone jutted into the ground, the shape the same as every other one he had passed on his way here.

Someone had already arrived.

White is said to be a color of purity, and he knew of very few people he could undoubtably confirm as pure. White is supposed to be a symbol of something holy, a mimic of heavenly goodness, like the stones and firgures that littered this half-forgotten place, one of the many places in the world people hated to think about. White was also, in some cultures, a symbol of grief and suffering, according to a book he'd stumbled over in his home once. He'd put it in a donations box, but that meaning still haunted him.

She was completely white; always was.

But she was anything but holy, he could testify to that. Nothing from Heaven could have a temper such as hers. No one blessed with divine goodness would act the way she did.

So...did that mean she was born mourning?

She looked it now, eyes closed as tears welled up beneath them and spilled out onto her cheeks. Her shoulders where hunched over, shaking with repressed sorrow. He felt for her now, she was obviously suffering. He did not however, go to comfort her as she grieved. He could not ever comfort the suffering...

She was leaving, thankfully.

Her tears were breaking his heart. He hated watching them cry, often wanting to jump away from the self-imposed bindings that separated him from them, and bring smiles back. But he didn't, no matter how hard they all cried.

Gone.

He stepped out into the open, eyes darting about in search of anyone else. He didn't want anyone to see him here, to know that he came here every once in a while. He didn't want to attract their attention.

Slowly, he stepped forward to the marble structure that came a little above his waist. He always felt strange when he came here, and he came somewhat often. Mostly out of disbelief. He was intrigued by the stone marker, by the little firgure that adorned it, head bowed in an eternal prayer.

Now there was the human race, if he ever saw it. Always asking for something.

He knelt, and pulled a single rose from inside his jacket, where he had placed it in order to save it from the rain. Now it bent over in his hand, weighted and beaten by the rain he'd protected it from at first. No matter what he did to help, it always ended the same way as it would've been had he never done anything. Tattered. Broken.

Lost.

A deep red rose now laid beside the white ones she had placed there. Dark blood against white snow.

Did the roses mourn too?

He stood, and the feeling of irony swept over him, as it always did when he came. Here was the true sense of the words, strange and ironic. Reality was riddled with such things, but if someone had been ordered to take a photograph of the meanings, this would probably be the picture they chose.

A desolate, lost red rose admist a field of whiteness, of mourning.

Truly strange....

Truly ironic....

....standing at his own grave...

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Alright then, that's a wrap people. I would appreciate you all going to review, all right?

Good night! :)

By the way, I have _no_ idea who the guy is.


End file.
